


Seasons

by boywonder



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boywonder/pseuds/boywonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Don't let him get too far under your skin, Arthur,” she said, ignoring what he'd said. “He's a hard man to pin down, I know, but he's really quite charming. It's all an act, of course, that's what his job is. But don't let him get to you.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="small">Written for <a href="http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com">Inception Reverse Bang 2013</a>. Picture by <a href="http://7daysofpaisley.livejournal.com">Seven</a> is <a href="http://i.imgur.com/SXdgc5a.jpg">here</a>. Prompt was "Arthur is in love, but Eames isn't."</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small">I didn't quite stick with the prompt, but I tried.</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seasons

_Baby, seasons change, but people don't_

_And I'll always be waiting in the back room_

_-The Take Over, The Break's Over" by Fall Out Boy_

It was autumn when Mal introduced them. Arthur had learned when he first met her that Mal knew almost everyone. At least, it seemed like she did. Arthur had always been distant from other people. It wasn't that he didn't socialize, or make friends, it was just that he was slower to trust. Mal and Dom were easy to like, easy to know. In those days, they were on again, off again. Arthur didn't think Mal had it in her to settle down, have a family. She was a social butterfly, gathering people around her with no effort.

Where she had met Eames, he couldn't guess, and she wouldn't tell him. She liked to keep an air of mystery around her, she said. Dom said she just couldn't remember where she met all these people; most of them came to her parents' extravagant parties.

One of those parties was exactly where she'd introduced Arthur to the man who called himself Eames. Arthur was sure right away that it was an alias, especially since he didn't seem to have another name to go with it.

Arthur had noticed him from across the room. The dining hall was full of men in tuxedos and women in glitzy dresses. Arthur himself was immaculately dressed, though the tux he had was a rental. He still couldn't afford to be in the same class as Mal, though he certainly tried. He'd get there eventually; the project that she and Dom were working on was bound to take them all there. If it wasn't strictly legal...well, that didn't matter too much to Arthur.

The guests largely ignored him. Every now and then, someone would recognize him from the last one of these soirees they'd all been at, but he was mostly alone. He didn't mind that. He liked observing people. There was much more to be learned when they treated you like you were invisible than there was when they tried to make small talk. That was more or less why he kept coming to these things. That, and to learn to blend in with them more. Considering the kinds of clientele that were interested in dreamsharing, it went a lot smoother when you could pretend that you had money like they did. Mal was much more suited for dealing with clients than Arthur was, but she and Dom both insisted he brush up his social skills. His detective work didn't need help, but that aspect did. No one was perfect, even if Arthur liked to pretend otherwise.

Eames stood out like a sore thumb in the room full of perfectly arranged people. He was wearing pants that looked like they'd never seen an iron. His shirt was untucked, and also in need of ironing. Nothing he was wearing would have even remotely passed for a tuxedo, even in much lower class company. He hadn't even bothered with a tie. When Arthur saw him, he was standing near the punchbowl, one hand in the pocket of his blazer (which didn't even _match his pants_!), saying something that was apparently appalling to a young lady in a red dress, judging from the look on her face.

Normally, Arthur would have been appalled himself. Part of him certainly was. Who the hell was this man, standing around a black-tie party barely dressed in business casual clothes? Were those loafers? Was he even wearing _socks_? It was something of a scandal in this crowd, and Arthur at least had their sensibilities, if not their money. Still...

He tore his eyes away from the man and scanned the room for Mal. She was radiant in blue silk, though she would have been radiant in anything. She was attended by several men who looked more or less the same in their designer tuxedos, which was nothing new. Dom would have been a mess over it, but Dom wasn't there. He found excuses to stay away from these affairs, as often as not. Arthur didn't really understand the why, but Dom was kind of a strange guy anyway.

Arthur stood at the outside of her circle of suitors (or so he thought of them, whether it was accurate or not), politely waiting. It only took her a moment to notice him there, and only a few moments more to extract herself from the others.

“Is something the matter? You look upset,” she said, sliding her arm into his, fluidly, leaving no room for him to refuse.

“Do I?” he asked, noncommittally, leading her (or letting her lead him) away from the group of people.

“What is it?” she asked, gentle but insistent.

“There's a man by the punch bowl who looks like he can't possibly have gotten past security,” Arthur said. He has a smile pasted on his face, not wanting anyone who might be looking at them to know how serious he felt.

She laughed, just a little. “Oh, Arthur, you worry too much. And you underestimate the competence of our security. I'm sure that's Eames. I've never been able to get him to wear a tuxedo.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“Come, I'll introduce you. He's not as offensive as you think. You know better than to judge a person upon first glance only,” she said. Her tone left no room for argument, and anyway, she was pulling him toward the punch table before he could protest.

Mal slipped away from Arthur as they approached the table. He thought for one ridiculous moment that he ought to turn on his heel and leave right then, but of course he'd never offend her like that. So he stood there, feeling like the world had somehow been flipped on its side, though he could not quite articulate why.

Mal said something to Eames and he laughed, and turned toward Arthur.

“Arthur, is it? Well, if Mal approves of you, then it's a pleasure,” Eames said, offering a hand.

“Mr. Eames,” said Arthur, somewhat flatly. He wasn't sure what to make of the man, no matter what Mal seemed to think. He wasn't so quick to take her judgment of people's character as worthy, even if Eames apparently was. He still had the good grace to shake, however.

Instead of actually shaking his hand, however, Eames raised Arthur's hand to his lips and kissed it. Arthur stared at him, wide-eyed, his mask of composure broken, at least in the moment. Beside him, Mal laughed again. Arthur could feel his ears turn red, and he jerked his hand back and shoved it into his pants pocket.

Eames laughed, too, and his eyes sparkled.

Arthur noticed, up close, that he hadn't even bothered to shave. He would have been surprised if he'd even done more than comb his hair. At _least_ he had done that much. Who was this man to Mal, that he could waltz in here like this? Normally she was as big on sticking to protocol as he was. Well, maybe not as much as he was, but she did tend to follow the rules of etiquette to the letter.

An older woman with too much jewelry on passed by them, catching Mal's attention. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said then, surprising Arthur with her fast retreat. He stared after her as she went, longing to go with her, sure he didn't want to be left with this _man_.

“You're the one she's got on that project, aren't you?” Eames asked.

Arthur's attention snapped back to him. “What?” he asked, suspicion evident in his tone.

“Relax, darling, I already know about it. Had some experience with all that in Austria a year or so ago. I know, you types don't like to talk about it in public. Very hush hush, no one must know. Everyone's a secret agent, isn't that it? You've got to control that reaction, though. Dead giveaway.”

Arthur frowned, more because Eames was right about his reaction than anything else.

“I have to go,” he said. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Eames.” He turned to do just that, but Eames reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Don't be so up tight, Arthur. You're too young for that.”

Arthur laughed, though there was no humor in it. “You have no idea how old I am.”

“I'm not Sherlock Holmes, true, but I could make an educated guess. Younger than Mal is, and that's too young to be that up tight.”

Arthur pursed his lips.

“Let go of me,” he said, not wishing to suffer further embarrassment.

Eames smiled. Surprisingly, he did as he asked. “Your call, love,” he said, shrugging. “Oh, do try the punch, it's divine. I promise I didn't spike it or whatever other naughty thing you're surely imagining I did.”

He was gone before Arthur could find a suitable comeback. He stared after him, almost in a state of shock. That feeling like the world had changed lingered, and he hated it just a little.

Mal found him again about ten or fifteen minutes later, still lingering near the punch bowl. He hadn't taken Eames' suggestion to try the punch.

“Arthur, dear, are you sure you're feeling all right?” she asked, touching his arm lightly with one hand.

He shook himself out of his thoughts and stared at her for a moment. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, it's just...it's nothing. I think I'm going to head out, okay? I've had all the small talk and hors d'oeuvres I can take for one evening.”

“Don't let him get too far under your skin, Arthur,” she said, ignoring what he'd said. “He's a hard man to pin down, I know, but he's really quite charming. It's all an act, of course, that's what his job is. But don't let him get to you.”

Arthur smiled at her, though he couldn't make it touch his eyes. “I don't let _anyone_ get too far under my skin, Mal. You know me.”

“That's why I'm warning you,” she said.

It was all Arthur could do to make himself walk away without questioning her about Eames.

* * *

It was summer when Dom and Mal were finally married. They were married in Nice, where her parents had property. Her parents disapproved, even though Dom was the brightest architectural graduate that they'd seen in ages. He wasn't from money, and he was an American. Neither of Mal's parents were, and they were afraid she'd renounce French citizenship. Of course, she did no such thing, but that didn't mean they approved. They spent the majority of the reception at their table, with Mal's other family, looking down their noses at the other guests from across the room.

Mal ignored them, and stayed at her own table with her new husband, Arthur, Nash, the various others that came and went from the team, and Eames. Neither Dom's family or Mal's was at the table, both for distance and for fairness.

Arthur had told Mal he thought that the forger's presence was a bad idea. Not only did he still refuse to dress respectably enough, considering the company, but he was...well, he was _Eames_. They'd only done one or two jobs together, and Eames was always on top of whatever he'd been doing (or pretending at, as Arthur sometimes thought of it). Still, Arthur didn't like him.

No, that wasn't even it. Arthur _did_ like him. He couldn't even say exactly why, but he found the forger intriguing, and that wasn't something he needed or even wanted. He was happy for Dom and Mal, but having connections to other people...that was dangerous. And it was unnecessary. And why _Eames_ , anyway? That was the most irritating thing about it. The type of person Eames presented himself as was definitely not the type of person _Arthur_ should have been attracted to.

Mal had laughed at him and said not to worry about it. Eames was a close friend, after all, and of course he would be there, and of course he would be part of the wedding. Arthur sighed and accepted it. It was her wedding, after all.

Eames had at least worn a suit for the wedding itself, though sometime between the ceremony and the reception, he'd traded it for chinos and some horribly patterned shirt that Arthur would have had outlawed if he'd been able. He'd kept the suit jacket, but it was slung over his chair instead of actually on. He still managed to look good, in that just-got-out-of-bed sort of way. Arthur kept downing champagne to try and take his mind off of it, but it only seemed to be making the problem worse.

The toasts were long over (Arthur had given a formal one, being the best man, and several other people had given drunk rambling ones), but no one felt like going home. Dom and Mal went back to dancing, and Arthur watched them. He didn't really get it. They were both so different. But they had the same passion for life, and for each other. Their on again, off again had turned into on all the time. Dom had confessed to Arthur one night in a bar in Germany that he didn't think he could live without her, and that conversation had led to this. Despite Mal's family, Arthur was happy for them.

“You know, I wouldn't be terribly surprised if they expanded their family in the next six months or so,” Eames said, sliding into the chair next to Arthur as if he belonged there.

Arthur stared at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Mal's as lovely as ever, but surely you've noticed it? That dress had to be taken out before the wedding, you know. Not much, but, very slightly. And she hasn't had anything to drink. Or are you so busy drowning your sorrows that you didn't notice?” Eames said.

Arthur _had_ noticed, actually. It was in his nature to notice things, and it was in his _job description_ , to boot. But he'd overlooked the dress thing.

He could feel his face redden slightly. “How do you know about the dress?” he asked, ignoring the dig at his observational skills.

Eames leaned back in the chair. “I have my ways. Anyway, I'm willing to bet it's a girl.”

“What if you're wrong?”

“Then it's a boy. It's decent odds, 50/50.”

“Not about that, I mean, what if she's...you know.”

“Not pregnant? Oh, don't be naïve, it doesn't suit you.”

Arthur pursed his lips together and looked back at Mal. She didn't really look any different. She looked happy. Glowing, maybe. But it was her wedding day. And she didn't look any bigger to him, though the dress she was wearing was ruched in the front, around the torso. That in and of itself spoke volumes, though, didn't it? And if Eames was right about the dress size...and she _hadn't_ even had one glass of champagne. Her original glass sat untouched on the table. She was subtle about it, and Arthur was willing to bet that most people hadn't noticed, but...

“That face doesn't suit you, either,” Eames remarked, taking another drink of his own champagne.

Arthur glared at him. “And what _would_ suit me, Mr. Eames?”

Eames' mouth twitched. “Less clothing than all that, for one. The walls of my hotel room, maybe. Though you'd disagree on that second bit, I think, if you're as choosy about wallpaper as you are about clothes.”

Arthur almost dropped his champagne glass and his composure, but somehow managed to hold on to both of them. “I'm not sure what gave you that impression,” he said, carefully.

“The thing about the clothes is obvious. The other, well, I'd have to be a bloody blind man to have not noticed you staring at me all day.”

Arthur jerked his eyes away from Eames at that remark. He couldn't think of a suitable response.

“No one will miss us, love, come on,” Eames said.

Arthur was just drunk enough to ignore the part of him that was protesting against it.

The bridge and groom _did_ notice them leaving, and Mal had a strange look on her face as they did so, but no one stopped them.

“I don't do things like this,” Arthur said, in the cab on the way back to the hotel.

“Of course you don't, Arthur, it's not your style,” Eames said, amiably, and turned to look out the window.

The cab ride wasn't long enough for Arthur to completely change his mind on the situation, and before long he found himself in Eames' hotel room. Eames was right about his opinions of the wallpaper, but he didn't admit it aloud. He didn't want to give the forger the satisfaction.

The alcohol made his mind hazy enough that he still didn't protest when Eames kissed him. He still didn't protest when his jacket landed on the sofa in the front room of the suite. It wasn't until they were actually in the bed, mostly undressed, that he managed to hold onto enough actual thought to call a halt to it. He shoved Eames off and sat up.

 Eames looked confused. “Really, _now_ , Arthur?” he asked, though his tone was soft.

“I shouldn't even be here,” Arthur said, his voice ragged.

“Yes, yes, all your morals and propriety. I see the way you look at me. Why argue with that?”

“Because this doesn't mean anything,” he said, refusing to meet Eames' eyes.

Eames frowned, though Arthur only saw it in his peripheral. “What do you want it to mean, Arthur? Dom and Mal are married, everyone is happy except her parents, which as I understand it is the normal state of affairs anyway, and there's nothing wrong with celebrating. Are you telling me you suddenly don't want to?”

Arthur laughed at that, bitterly. “I do want to. That's why I shouldn't. I don't expect you to understand.” He stood up and pulled his pants back on.

“Oh, bloody Christ, you really are going to leave, aren't you,” Eames said. It wasn't a question.

“I told you you wouldn't understand, and Mal warned me about you, and-”

Eames stood up and grabbed his arm before he could find his shirt, or finish his sentence. “ _Warned_ you about me?” he demanded.

“She told me not to let you get too far under my skin,” Arthur responded with a sigh.

Eames laughed, then, though he actually sounded amused. “Ah, yes, the lady does have everyone's numbers, doesn't she? Well then, run along back to your high moral ground if you must. Or let me take your pants off again, that's really what I'd prefer.”

Arthur shook his head and pulled his arm away. “I need this to mean something else,” he said.

Eames didn't answer. He watched Arthur gather his clothes and straighten his hair in the mirror, then followed him to the front room while he collected his jacket.

“Don't play damsel in distress, Arthur,” Eames said, from the doorway.

Arthur paused and looked at him, one arm in his jacket and one still out of it.

“What does that even mean?”

“Running away and expecting me to chase you. Poor Arthur, so far out of your league because you can't let yourself want anything. It's a game I won't play, you know.”

“I don't want to play games with you, Eames,” Arthur said, narrowing his eyes and shoving his other arm into his jacket.

“What _do_ you want, love?” Eames asked.

Arthur turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him, before he could be tempted to actually answer the question.

* * *

Three winters later, Dom and Mal's second child was born. They were in Paris at the time, at Mal's mother's insistence. Usually, they lived stateside, but Mal's parents wanted her babies to be born in the house she had been born in. Arthur flew in from Boston the day Dom called him to say it was a boy, though it was late by the time he got there.

The next morning, he stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching Mal hold her son and coo nonsense at him. It was near dawn, and he'd thought to find her asleep, but there she was. Dom, on the other hand, was snoring softly in a chair at her side.

She looked up and met Arthur's eyes. “Arthur! Goodness, I didn't even know you were in France!”

“I wasn't,” he said, returning her smile and actually walking into the room. “I came in a few hours ago.”

“You ought to sleep,” she chided. He shrugged, and sat on the bed next to her, looking down at the baby's tiny, scrunched face.

“He's beautiful,” he said. “Where's Phillipa?”

“With her grandmother, blessedly. I didn't want her to hear me screaming through labor. Or you either. I'm glad he waited to call you.”

Arthur had to laugh a little at that. “If Dom can manage it, I'm sure I'd be fine.”

“Ah, there is that,” she agreed. “Would you like to hold him?”

Arthur blinked at her, confused for a moment. He realized what she meant, then, and shook his head. “What? Oh. No, I...I'm not really good with kids.”

“Nonsense! Phillipa loves you.”

“She's three. She loves everyone.”

“And you especially.”

Arthur shook his head again and stood up. “No. I'll wait until he doesn't look so...small.”

Mal shook her head, but accepted the answer. In the chair, Dom jumped awake. Both of the other adults stared at him.

“Are you okay?” Mal asked. Dom nodded, and smiled at her, though it looked forced.

“Bad dream?” Arthur asked. No one thought that was funny.

Arthur left them shortly after that to actually sleep himself. He usually didn't dream anymore unless it was a job, and there were times he was thankful for that. He spent enough time disconnected from the real world these days, after all.

When he came downstairs again, it was late afternoon. He went into the kitchen to get something to drink, but paused in the doorway. Digging in the fridge as if it was his house and not Mal's father's house, was Eames.

Arthur hadn't seen Eames in six months or more, and he could have gone another six and not missed him. Or...mostly not missed him. They were complicated, even after three years. Arthur found that Eames's very presence encouraged bad judgment, though since the incident at the wedding it was usually limited to picking fights in back alley bars instead of following the forger back to his hotel room.

“Arthur!” Eames said, brightly, standing up. Without waiting for an answer or an invitation, he popped the cork off the bottle he was holding. Foam bubbled out of the top of the bottle, covering Eames's hand and onto the floor. Arthur frowned at him.

“You're making a mess,” he scolded. “What if they were saving that?”

“Champagne is for celebrating, Arthur. And I don't know how _you_ feel, but I'm jetlagged as hell, and Mal's been unable to drink champagne for nine months and some odd days, what with being a late delivery. We could all use it, don't you think?”

“She still can't drink,” Arthur said, annoyed for no tangible reason. “Breast feeding, remember?”

“Ah, well, then we'll just have to enjoy it for her, won't we. Get me a glass, will you, they're just to your left.”

Arthur gritted his teeth, but he figured the other choice was watching Eames drink out of the bottle. He couldn't stand that thought, so he grudgingly got two glasses down and set them on the island in the middle of the kitchen.

“Decided to join me after all?”

“Drinking alone is a terrible habit.”

“One I'd wager you know more about than I do, darling, but I promise not to tell mummy and daddy on you,” Eames said, pouring the champagne as he went. He raised his glass, a cheeky smile on his face. “Cheers.”

Arthur picked his glass up but didn't return the toast.

“What are you doing here?”

“Mal called me about 6am Paris time yesterday and told me her water broke. I told her I'd come when I could, which as it turned out was about two hours ago. Flight from Mumbai, you know. You?”

“Dom called me yesterday after the baby was born,” Arthur answered.

“Ah. They waited to call you because they know you stress out about these things. You'd have been a mess about it if you'd been here.”

“Mal said she didn't want me to hear her scream.”

“Did you think she was joking?”

Arthur didn't respond, choosing instead to down his glass of champagne.

“Do you want a stiffer drink than that? Drinking champagne all at once is a dreadful feeling.”

Arthur agreed, but he refused to give Eames the satisfaction of being right. He set his glass down.

“Have a good night, Mr. Eames,” he said.

He checked on Mal and the baby, then went out into the city. It had been awhile since he’d been in Paris, but he wasn’t really in the mood to enjoy it. Instead, he found a bar and ignored his own advice about drinking alone. He stumbled back to the house more than a little drunk. Still, he had the sense to be quiet. Mal’s parents were probably home, though he hadn’t seen them. The house was huge, but there was no reason to be a bad houseguest and wake everyone up.

Not everyone was asleep, though. Arthur saw the light on in the hall. He knew he should just leave it alone, but he didn’t have _that_ much sense left. So he made his way down the hall and knocked lightly on the door.

“Come in, love, it’s not as if it’s locked,” came the voice from the other side.

He’d never have done it sober, but as it was, he opened the door and stepped into the room.

“Late night, I see. You fight jetlag with beer these days?”

“I don’t drink beer,” Arthur responded.

“Ah, yes, of course. Far too cheap for you, isn’t it. I should have remembered. You’re lucky you caught me up. I was just about to go to bed,” Eames said, cheerfully, though he looked like no such thing was true. He was still mostly dressed, and was sitting in a chair near the desk – not anywhere near the bed.

“Why do you have to comment on _everything I do_?” Arthur asked, annoyance showing on his face.

Eames shrugged one shoulder. “Because no one else would dare to. For someone who couldn’t possibly weigh more than 10 and a half stone soaking wet, people do act scared of you, don’t they?”

“That’s part of my job,” Arthur said, even if that wasn’t exactly true.

“Only in your dreams, love,” Eames said, without even a trace of a smile.

“No. Not _my_ dreams,” Arthur said, stonily.

“Arthur, what are you doing here?” Eames asked, ignoring Arthur’s annoyance.

“Resolving our unresolved sexual tension,” Arthur replied, dryly. He didn’t smile, but then, he wasn’t really trying to be funny.

Eames laughed anyway. “Oh, honestly, _here_? Like this? You’re drunk. You should go to bed. Forget all about this nonsense.”

“I can’t. Three years, and I can’t forget about it.”

“Is that why you’re drunk?”

“No.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Eames said. He sighed, and stood up, crossing to Arthur. “This isn’t how you should do this, darling.”

“You told me you won’t chase me,” Arthur replied, knowing it wasn’t a valid response.

“And I haven’t, though there are times you make it so hard not to. I hadn’t counted on that.” His mouth twitched, but he managed not to smile again. He reached up and brushed a hand along Arthur’s face. “But tonight isn’t a good night.”

“Why not? Who the hell cares? No one will hear.”

“As if I give a damn who hears.”

“Then why?”

Eames leaned in and kissed him then, softly. “Because you need it to mean more than this,” he said, echoing Arthur’s words, but not meanly.

“No I don’t,” Arthur protested. “Don’t throw my words in my face.”

“Yes you do, love. I won’t be one of your few regrets.”

Arthur laughed, humorlessly, and took a step back. “It’s too late for that,” he said.

Eames studied him for a long moment, arms crossed, uncharacteristically closing himself off. “I won’t have you be one of mine, then, is that better?”

Arthur looked hurt for just a second, because he didn’t have the self-control to keep his face totally blank. He turned without a word and went back to his room. He half-expected Eames to come have the last word, but he never did.

The next morning, the forger was gone, and there was a text on Arthur’s phone.

_Find me when you’re actually ready. None of this drunken teenager business._

He deleted it and threw the phone at the wall.

* * *

Spring was late coming, or at least it seemed so to Arthur. He spent much of the winter stateside, working with teams away from Dom and Mal. He never stayed with other teams long; he didn’t always find it easy to stand people in long doses. Mal always made it easy, and he’d gotten close to Dom. But other people? Not as much.

He went back to Paris in April to see Mal and the kids, or so he told himself.

What he really wanted - _needed_ \- was advice.

He’d never been good at asking for help with anything, so he found pretense. He and Mal spent the first afternoon he was there at a café he’d discovered the very first time he’d come to Paris.

“We’re going back to the states next month,” Mal announced, stirring her tea and not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “Dom wants to take the children back there. He doesn’t want my parents to raise them.”

Arthur stared at her for a moment, then chuckled. “You turned out fine. It’s not a commentary on you.”

“No, and it’s one I agree with. I turned out fine, but I wouldn’t push my mother on another young person if I had another choice.”

“Will you miss it here?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I suppose. I like travelling. Anyway, we aren’t _quitting_ , if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

He shook his head.

She studied him for a moment, then sighed and set down her tea. “Arthur. You didn’t come all the way to France to listen to me talk about my family. What are you doing here?”

“I came here to see _you_ ,” Arthur said, skirting around the question.

“I believe that is mostly the case, but this isn’t a social visit. You could call or email. What’s wrong, Arthur? You were in quite a mood when you left the last time.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur said, setting his own cup down. “I just…do you remember your wedding?”

“Arthur, really-“

“No, of course. I know. Of course you remember it. But I don’t know if you noticed when I left.”

Mal considered that for a moment. “You left around the time Eames did.”

“I left _with_ Eames,” Arthur corrected.

“Oh, Arthur,” she said, her words more a sigh than anything else.

“I shouldn’t have done it. I realized it was a mistake before it got…really bad. But I just…keep _thinking_ about that. And he’s the best damn forger I’ve ever met, so we keep ending up on jobs together. So he’s always there, in my periphery. And you _warned_ me about it. About him.”

“Do you know _why_ I warned you about him?” she asked, her tone serious.

Arthur frowned, and shook his head. “Because he’s not someone to get attached to.”

“For someone so brilliant, sometimes you are so clueless. I warned you because Eames is the type of person you would beat yourself up about being involved with. You’re from very different worlds, different mindsets. Eames is all of the things you can’t ever be. I know both of you far too well.”

“Did you give him the same warning?” Arthur asked, trying not to get annoyed at her and failing.

“Something along those lines. Though neither of you knows how to listen. I suppose that saying, about opposites attracting, is true.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Do you know why I married Dom?”

Arthur looked at her in confusion for a moment. “What?”

“After so long when we walked in and out of each other’s lives, what was it, five years? After all that time, I had a simple realization.”

“What was that?”

“I knew what my life was like when he wasn’t there, for months at a time sometimes. I had to know what it was like when he was there. When he was a constant.”

“And what was it like?” Arthur asked, unable to leave it alone.

“Far superior to the alternative.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s something I think you need to hear.”

* * *

It was autumn when Arthur tracked Eames down in Germany. They’d gotten off a job together and immediately went their separate ways, with hardly any conversation. But seeing his face again, Arthur couldn’t let it go.

He showed up at Eames’ hotel room just after midnight.

“Well aren’t you an unexpected guest,” Eames said when he opened the door, though he looked anything but surprised.

“You told me to find you when I was ready,” Arthur said, not bothering with pretense or excuses.

“And you certainly took your sweet time about it, didn’t you?”

“Are you going to let me in or not?” Arthur asked.

Eames sighed, overdramatically, and stepped back from the door. “At least you’re sober this time, that’s a start.”

“Eames, you…” he started, then stopped. He couldn’t bring himself to say what he was thinking out loud. “I _do_ need this to mean more than it would have.”

“I’m aware,” Eames said. “So, what, you came here to tell me I was right, is that it?”

“No. I came here to _make_ it mean something.”

“There it is, then. You know, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could wait. Four years is an awfully long time to act like a schoolgirl with a crush,” Eames said, but his tone was light.

“Eames,” Arthur said, all but growling the word.

“Yes, love?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
